Six weeks ago, I drove from the other side of Tocumwal (the Victorian side) to Forbes. I passed through Tocumwal, bought a coffee, and fueled up.
On the New South Wales side of the border, I felt that familiar sliding sensation— I’d just slipped off the ropes of connection that moored me to a civil life. I was bobbing in a sea of unknown and for once I relished it.
THIS is what road life is about.
In Finley, I found the old RV parking area I’d thought of using two years ago when I was last in the area. Passed the caravan park where I’d spent one night — caught the courtesy bus to the local sports club, had dinner alone, and caught the bus back — and drove through to Jerilderie.
Stopped in Jerilderie for a cup of tea and to boil eggs.
Next stop was Narrandera, and I called H.
He was surprised I’d got that far.
I said, “I’m not as chicken as you thought.”
He replied, “I’m just so impressed with what you’re doing.”
That comment surprised me. Nobody has ever said that to me.
My daughter’s conversation had a different texture. Despite her butt dial, she wanted to know, “Are you having fun?”
No one has asked that question before. I appreciated her perception and replied with a heartfelt, “Yes.”
I drove on to Forbes and chose to stay at a rest area on the south side of town — a terrible mistake. Trucks thundered past all night, breaking up my sleep.
After breakfast, I pulled into a caravan park and asked how much it cost for a shower. Most parks suggest a donation or a $5 fee.
The caretaker offered a free shower and mentioned she might be moving on in March 2026. I said that was interesting, as I’d be returning from Tasmania then, and I wondered what I might do when I returned. With her encouragement, I flicked her a message with my name and number so her boss has another option if she chooses to move on from caretaking.
Later, as I sat at a rest stop outside Forbes enjoying tea and toast with marmalade, I thought how the trucks hammered the silence with their roaring engines — almost as loud as jet engines at an airport. After the ripples of sound washed through the air and settled into the grassy surrounds, I could hear the birds chirping and going about their day. They seemed to accept the noise of the trucks and passing motorists as part of life.
During a moment of calm, between the backwash of noise, I wondered: what’s in my future?
This journey feels like I’m planting seeds — practical possibilities and writing endeavours. As I move through an unknown state (I last drove through NSW twenty-five years ago), the trucks hammering the silence seem to match my internal rhythm of old issues demanding attention.
I know they’ll create a different roar — an internal noise that cannot be quelled without honest inquiry and integration. But I will attend to those issues when the time is right.
Meanwhile, as the roar subsides, the birdcalls remind me that always, after the noise, there is peace.
Photo by Elsa GUYADER on Unsplash
Christine Writer 